Live Through Time
by justdandy9
Summary: A Metallica Story. A girl who is disgusted with her timeline in life acquires a time machine and goes back to the 1980's to live with people she considers father figures, but it didn't go the way she had planned. AU because of the "butterfly effect".


2014.

I never liked my generation. They are more ridiculous and immature than  
the one before them. Purely pathetic children who do not know  
how easy they have it. I remember thinking at a very young age about  
how I was to grow up with those people as peers and I would have to  
live with it from the 1990s to forever. That is just how things are.

But I know I was born in the time of the time machine so I could go back  
and live life from there. What year did I choose? Why, 1979 of course. I  
did this so I could be with people who I consider father figures,  
James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich and Kirk Hammett. Most know them as Metallica, but I connected with them on such a deep personal level without even meeting them, and now was the time to do so.

I got some time-appropriate clothing for my trip; stone-washed, ripped jeans,  
black boots, and a Led Zeppelin shirt. Time to leave this terrible world behind to be where I always felt I belonged.  
I've always had that feeling when I looked at photographs or heard a certain part of a song, that I was present when it was made. I always somehow knew deep down that I was a part of them, not merely a fan.  
How could I feel such a mentally unsound connection?

It is said that crazy people don't know that they're crazy. Maybe this is true, because I deny it, and my excuse is that perhaps I am beyond ordinary in ways that I do not understand, that no one can understand.  
Maybe if I go to where I thought I was, I will find that I do belong. That sense of extreme de ja vu.  
***

The transportation was rather tingly. I found myself in Southern California outside of a bar.  
Before I know it, Lars comes walking out with a buddy talking about how great a band was.  
I notice a few things about the predicament.  
-He has an open cup of beer in his hand.  
-He stumbles, seemingly drunken.  
I step in front of him to purposely make him spill his beer on me.

"Ah, shit. I'm sorry, babe." He said cringing from any type of fresh air.

"It's fine." I said, acting inconvenienced and frustrated.

"And on Zepp, too!" He slurred while brushing his hand down my torso to  
try to wipe the beer stain off like it was snow on a car.

"I'm sure I'll get by." I laughed as I politely moved his arm  
back to his own body.

"Lemme make it up to you. One drink."

Of course, I agree.

Lars and I talked drunkenly at the bar all night and into the next  
morning, when he invited me back to his house to check out some of his  
records.

My name is Gemma Sellwake, and Lars Ulrich and I have been the best of  
friends for a year now.  
***

"Hey, Gem?" Lars called while walking down the hallway of his home.

"Yeah?" I yelled from my room. He entered my room and took his expected  
glance around. I had film cameras and photography cameras from the 2000's that I claimed I had  
just "put together" so he wouldn't discover Sony or any other technologies before their time.  
I was sitting at a desk to the right of a window in front of a film slicing  
machine. I was editing the short films I would need in thirty-plus  
years for film school. That was one of the best things about the  
time machine- you don't age since you are timeless.

"You remember that ad I put out in The Recycler?" He asked with the  
most entertaining smile.

"Yeah. What about it?" I knew exactly what about it.

"Well I got a call a couple minutes ago and this guy, James, wants to  
jam."  
Oh, the main figure. I loved James just a little more than the others.  
He reminded me of a better version of my father-who took off when I was a little girl. I  
was overjoyed to finally hear his name.

I did plot my itinerary well.  
-Befriend the most outgoing and social member.  
-He will meet James and others first.  
If I may make an analogy, Lars is like a landlord, and I want all the  
rooms. I'm only going to get the key from him.

"Cool. When?" I can barely contain my happiness.

"Two days. My garage."

"Should I not be here so you can get the proper energy going?" Please,  
please. I want to stay.

"You can be wherever you want. You live here, too."

"'Tis true....Well, I'm excited. You're actually doing something  
music-related."

"I wish you would do something non-film related lately...you've been cramped in  
here for days. You need some fresh air."  
"Not all of us are European athletes, man." I defended while I kissed  
his head and pushed him out of the doorway so I could close the door  
and continue on with my work. "Now go practice so you won't suck.  
Remember, he's gotta dig you as well." I said to practice, but I knew  
exactly what would happen.

James would be unimpressed because Lars' one cymbal will keep falling off  
every time he hits it.

And so it happened.  
***

I met James when he came over to play music with Lars.

'Aww. Little baby James...' I thought when I first saw him walking up the driveway with a friend, 'look at his bangs! And his nose is so little....'

"Is Lars...Ul'rich'...here?" James asked, pronouncing the name incorrectly, when I opened the door. I had been standing at the window all day waiting for him to arrive. Lars wouldn't notice because:

"He's in the garage, I think. I haven't seen him all day."

"Thanks, uh..."

"Gemma."

"...Gemma." He smiled his gratuity and salutation shyly, as did his companion, as he walked down the front steps and into the garage.

Of course, I knew not to get too attached the first time I saw him. He wouldn't be around again for another few months. But hey, I still had thirty more years with the  
guys, right?

I listened to the noise coming from the garage with my ear on the floor. It wasn't music I was hearing. It sounded, ironically, like a couple of spastic kids messing  
around with pots and pans and one kid coincidentally knew how to play guitar pretty well. In harsher words, Lars sounded like shit. I think Lars knew this when James left. I saw him through the window, guitar case on his back, walking to his buddy's car quickly and rubbing the back of his neck and biting his lower lip.  
If I didn't know any better that meant the name 'Hetfield' would never be mentioned again.

I turned on the terrible, non-high-definition or flat-screen, crappy basic cable, fuzzy picture, block of a television with antennae as I heard Lars walking up the stairs.  
He sat on the couch next to me and simply sulked until I asked him what was wrong, pretending to be innocent.

"Han mener jeg Sutter. (He thinks I suck.)" He said in Danish. He finds it comforting when he's really down to not have to speak his second language.

"Men vi begge ved, at du ikke sutte. (But we both know you don't suck.)" I spoke my third to him.

"Jeg er så vred! Min bækken holdes breder sig hver forpulede gang jeg forsøgte at selv sætte det på! (I am so angry! My cymbal kept spilling over every fucking time I tried to even put it back on!)" He hid his face in his hands. I rubbed his back and told him that maybe he wasn't supposed to play with James.  
I realize that it would seem that Lars and I are lovers at this point, but in no way  
do we feel that way for each other. He was like my father in my time because I was so much younger than him, but now that we share the same age, he is like my brother, and I am like his sister.

"Jeg respekterer dine indsigt hvor meget uhyre. Det vide. Men jeg virkelig trøde, han var awesome. Vi fik personligt, og han er en stor guitarist, Gem. Enestående. (I respect your insightfulness tremendously. You know that. But I really thought he was awesome. We got along personally, and he's a great guitarist, Gem. Great.)" He sighed. "Og han var den eneste, der kaldes...jeg ved ikke, hvad de skal gøre. (And he was the only one who called...I don't know what to do.)"

"Godt hvad du holde hængende omkring andre koncerter- (Well how about you keep hanging around other gigs-)"

"Jeg ønsker ikke at hænge omkring andre folk koncerter min hele livet! Jeg kunne også pluk tennis sikkerhedskopiere...! (I don't want to hang around other people gigs my whole life! I might as well pick tennis back up...!)" He was agitated.

_'Calming, nuturing, sensitive, structure',_ I coached myself.  
"Vil du kinesisk? Jeg bestilling i et minut. (Do you want Chinese? I'm ordering in a minute.)"

"Yeah, sikre. (Yeah, sure.)" He got up and went into the kitchen. "Do you want some beer?" Speaking in English. He's letting it go, or at least not wanting to talk about it anymore.

"That'd be awesome."

"What's on the tube? Anything at all?"

"Uhh...not really. There's news...we can watch a movie." I proposed as he came back with two six-packs.

"You and movies...." He mumbled.

"Party or binging?"

"Like we can't make it both." He chuckled as he popped open a fizzy one.

We were going through VHS tapes for hours, five beers per hour, and he just couldn't keep it back.  
"So what did you think of James? He was cool, right? You see anything off him?" He said, trying to be casual.

"Well, I saw a dude coming to jam, and leaving unsatisfactorily. That's it." Taking advantage of my skills...really only done when trying to pick up girls, but I  
happily obliged.

"Are you sure?" He was so desperate.

"Positive."

"It doesn't matter anyway. I don't know why I even give a shit. It's not like I'm ever going to see him again."

"You do realize you sound like a fag, right?"

"Who are you to say that I'm not?" He laughed as he put his head on my shoulder.  
So wasted.

June, 1981.

The months went by slowly and wonderfully. Lars went to Europe and hung out with a band over there. I had to wait patiently until he came back in a little bit, but I'm not patient at  
all. I went and sought out Kirk Hammett, who was with Exodus at the time. I easily made friends with him.  
I can't wait to see James again. That is why I didn't. Next, I found Ron McGovney. I befriended him in a matter of weeks.

"Hello?" Ron answered his block of a corded phone with no caller identification.

"Hey, Ron. It's Gemma. I just wanted to know if you wanted to go see this stylin' group called Rush tomorrow?" My  
itinerary lined up so well.

"No way!" He laughed. "I was going to go with my friend James. It's funny you asked."

"Not James Hetfield...?" Yes James Hetfield.

"Yeah, Hetfield. You know him?"

"I met him once. Did you happen to hear a story of a shitty Danish drummer?"

"Hell yeah! He was talking about that for days."

"His drum kit was half-put together." I laughed my defense.

"Well since we're all pretty much acquainted, do you wanna go with us? I mean, you'll be there anyway."

"Yeah. That'd be sweet. Should I meet you at your place?"

"Yeah. We're leaving' at 9:30, so be there."

"You got it." And, queue salutations.  
***

The concert went well. So did the after party. Drink, drink, drinkin'. I got my approval when Ron was at the open bar getting more drinks for us and I was sitting on James' lap hugging his head. He turned and looked at

me half laughing and slurred, "You're such a rockin' babe."

Ron handed me a drink for both hands and said, "Isn't she? She's the coolest chick ever."  
I had also taken up the habit of bringing a thin camera around with me wherever I went to capture the unforgettable moments, so I did a little of that as well.

I am now fantastic friends with Kirk, Ron and James. Lars should be back any day now, but we have not kept in touch. Next move on the itinerary:  
-Plot ahead; befriend Cliff Burton, although even the mere thought of this was intimidating.  
-Do not seem suspicious; do not look for Dave Mustaine, Jason Newsted or Robert Trujillo. They can be met through the guys.

Lars did not ask me to watch the house when he left. He did not say anything at all, really.

"Hey, Gem?" He asked hesitantly.

"What's up?"

"I got this really cool deal. I'm going to go to England to see this awesome band...."

"And you can't take me with you."

"Yeah." He had a sympathetic face.

"Have fun!" I was not bothered by this. It meant that even though I was here, it was not vastly affecting the future.  
"When are you leaving?"

"Three days."

And that was the last conversation I had with my little Dansk brother. His home no longer felt like _my_ home. So I checked in every day, making sure it was not being  
robbed. I mainly lived with Kirk for a while, since James was not too big on commitment. Cliff and Ron were too focused on music and school to have me around. When Lars comes back, he'll meet  
with James again on October 28th and tell him about Brian Slagel's Metal Blade label that Jason was currently signed with. Then I will have Metallica.  
In the beginning, I will not have much to do with them, for I am the background friend. Nothing special, even though they refuse to think so.

"We need to come up with something." Lars said to James.  
"I mean, there are girls. The girls have names- or at least some of 'em." He laughed.

"Something for what?"

"Gemma. Duh." He gently smacked James' face.

"Shut up, man. What are you thinking?"

"Well...she's a chick among men, and she's _the_ chick of chicks."

"So are we gonna call her 'chick'? What are you getting at?"  
James was half asleep from his late working hours and not in the mood to think, just hang out.

"Chickey." His eyes brightened with his creation of a term of endearment. I was quite flattered that I at least meant enough to think about without physical interaction.  
***

Metallica has been formed. They've started writing songs and practicing together all the time.  
I would always write some lyrics and helped with music and arrangement when I was present at most of their jam sessions. That was my and James' bonding. We are both musicians and lyricists, but only the right lyrics

go into the songs. I needed to make sure that only the Metallica lyrics went in - only Metallica music went in. It was really amazing that they gave me a say as if I were a member of the band, when really I was just a

friend chilling with them. But again, apparently I am more valued than I know.

They play local gigs. Ron doesn't seem to be too happy about the band anymore - which was expected. Enter Cliff soon.  
Everyone is pissed at Dave for his wild antics, so everything is going as planned.  
***

December 28, 1982.

Tonight is the first jam session with the extravagant Mr. Burton, who is donning a wardrobe consisting mostly of denim. The guys are clicking extremely well for being high out of their minds. Dave is a little bit of a

turn-off for Cliff, though. He doesn't like it quite as wild as our more or less beloved, flaming ginger.

It has been a few hours and Lars and I have been talking with Cliff and passing the "jam pipe", spin-off of the "peace pipe". James has been more concerned with the bonding through music and smacking Dave around,

who is feisty enough to retaliate. So basically, it's a celebration since we all know Cliff is in. We're all just chilling out and having a good time.

We got pretty plastered and did not get to any beds in time. I awoke to Dave pouring a cold beer on me. Rude, but tasty awakening. Apparently, Dave is the Energizer Bunny personified. I took the bottle from him and

broke it over his shoulder, then I looked around.

"What do you think, chickey?" He asked excitedly. "How great will it be when they wake up? Total hazing!" I stared, shocked, around the basement of the future Metallipad. This never happened.

Cliff's bass was taken apart, pieces scattered everywhere, Lars' drumsticks were torn into strips of splinters, stabbed into the snare and kick drums. I noticed then, that Dave had two cymbals in each of his hands, but I

was more concerned with James' guitar's neck snapped in half and placed over his torso.

"Dave...Dave...Dave! DAVE! DAVID!" My face couldn't decide whether to be red or white as he put his hand over my mouth.

"Sssh, chickey. You'll ruin it!" He whispered in my ear. He let me go and proceeded to crank his arms back slowly in front of James' face- _of all people_.  
"David, you're going to die! Why the fuck would you do this?!"

"I did it for you." He said with a wink and a smile as he launched the cymbals towards each other, making the most horrible noise. Everyone woke with grumbles and complaints. Cliff removed a bass string from his pants.

"What a crazy night..." He mumbled. Oh no, no, no, no.

James was next. That is when all hell broke loose. He held his guitar like a dead child in his arms, which is probably what it felt like. Music had been all he had, and still is a big part of his capacity for love.  
He let out a shriek of anger and pain that shut everyone up but Lars, who was crying over by his drum kit. I looked over at Dave to see that his face lost all trace of color, even his redness. Cliff was looking at me for

answers, but I couldn't go to him just yet. I called him over to help fend off James because I saw that the lion was about to attack. Viciously.  
Cliff stayed put, probably not understanding my wordless panic.

"Kill the focker." Lars commanded through an upset voice. So it's my job? Fine. I stood in front of Dave when James adjusted his weight to put one leg up from his sitting-on-heels position. This provoked him more. He

got up more slowly than he originally intended.  
He walked over to me, took me by my shoulders and quite literally _threw me _across the room, past Lars, into the heavy, sound-blocking drywall. Anger does increase strength, because we were just about equal when

it came to thick build, but I was shorter than him. I heard the sound of skin-coated bones against each other, and then I fell from the universe, drug down by the throbbing of my skull.

I woke to the sound that I fell asleep to. Screaming, cursing and objects hitting others loudly. I see that only Cliff is upstairs with me in the living room. I am on the couch, and he's on the floor between me and the TV,

reassembling his bass.

"Where are they?" I growled groggily.

"Don't, Gem." He didn't even stop what he was doing to look up at me.

"Are you still considering-"

"Hell yeah. James and Lars promised me that the kid isn't lasting' too much longer, so I agreed." Not for a few months....

"Congratulations." I said while getting up to follow the sounds against Cliff's warning.  
I walked down the stairs to the basement, calling on my 21st century "desensitization of violence" to surface. I heard yelps and thick

slaps and crunches. I turned the corner to walk around behind the staircase and stopped in front of a door that held the screams inside. I took a deep breath and opened it.

Dave is bound to a chair that the boys bolted into the floor. The walls of the room are dented in various shapes. Some of fists, some of bodies thrown into them, some of random objects, like tables. There was a sturdy

card table that had red puddles on and under it that was broken in half that lay right underneath that specific dent. That was my card table...I remembered playing poker with Kirk and Gary Holt.

"Guys, you break it you buy it!" I said, pointing at the table. I look over to the center of the room.  
I now see the details to Dave. He is covered in blood.

"Gemma!" He manages to cough up surprisingly joyfully. Lars and James turn around to reveal blood-splattered faces and clothes. Lars dropped a sharp object to his left side so I wouldn't see, but the light reflected its shimmer.

"I did it for you." He started to trail off, but was interrupted by an interlude of torture. No way would Dave be allowed to clock out soon. James hurled punch after punch until I yell at him to stop, which enticed him to do it a few more times.  
Dave had holes and cuts all over him, shirt removed, hair matted and torn. Lars threw a dart at him, which caught hold of his side, as he turned and tried to push me out. I pushed him back and went over to James. I put

the thought of prison into his mind and ordered him to stop. I took him out of the room so he could drop his 'tough guy' appearance.

"Come on, Jamie." I said as I wound my arms around his waist and pressed my beer-stained head against his blood-covered chest. I recalled hugging my father like this for significantly shorter periods of time.  
_Time_. It was all I wanted.  
He turned my head with his red hand and lifted it to look at my hazel eyes to see the serious disturbance his actions caused. He kissed my forehead and walked back into the room to convince Lars. He

was comfortable with the European way of affection, as long as it wasn't a guy. Lars would often just kiss James' cheek without his consent.  
They untied Dave and started to clean the room, since it wasn't the Metallipad yet, it was just Mark Whittaker's house. Dave walked over to me and smiled through his blood clot of a mouth.

"So what did you think?" He spat a chunk of blood to the side.

"What did I think? Damnit, Dave, you were almost killed." I hit his shoulder and he recoiled- I forgot he was injured pretty badly.  
"Come on, you need to get cleaned up and apologize to everyone."

"But Lars and James-" He began to object.

"I'll get them to apologize, too, even though it was your fault. C' mon." I took his hand and lead him to the upstairs bathroom.

I ran some warm water for him and left him to shower. I went back in when he said he was decent, which was obviously a lie because I walked in to see my naked uncle who was laughing at my shocked and offended

expression.

"I'll kill you myself if you don't put on some fucking shorts, Musty." I said through the door, cringing.

"Okay, okay. I promise I have shorts on."

"I will stab you with a spoon if you trick me again." I threatened. I heard more rustling, which meant he was planning on betraying my trust a second time, but thought better of it because he knew I was serious. "You

good?"

"Yeah...." He said, disappointed like a child.

I entered with a First Aid kit and sat him down on the toilet as I opened the box and took out an array of items. I put a cloth that was drenched in rubbing alcohol on his chest to clean out possible infections. He yelled

out in pain and smacked my hand away, causing me to drop the washcloth.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" He yelled.

"I'm making sure you don't die of infection! Relax. Don't be such a baby." I teased as I picked up the cloth, rinsed it off and dipped in in the rubbing alcohol again.

"You have no idea how much that hurts."

"Don't I?" I took a surgical scalpel and dug it into my muscular right forearm. I proceeded to put a few drops of the alcohol into the wound, and bandage it in under a minute. "It does hurt, but it doesn't call for a

bitchout." I rolled my eyes at his blank expression as I continued to prepare him for bandaging.

Out of nowhere, Lars enters the bathroom. He simply stands in the doorway, only looking at me for a brief second before staring at Dave blankly; breathing heavily, as he no doubt ran all the way from the basement.  
I knew something was going to happen, but I felt too exhausted to bother stopping it. Lars then took the bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured in on Dave's head, which I did not even get to yet. The burning, stinging liquid

trickled down from his crown to all over his body like a waterfall. Salt in the wound.

Dave began seizing with pain as he rolled off of the toilet to the bathtub, trying to rinse off the alcohol in the drops that were left behind from his shower, while hysterically trying to turn on the water.  
I turned to yell at Lars, but he was already halfway down the hallway, heading downstairs.

"Lars!" I screamed. "Få fuck tilbage her, Lars! (Get the fuck back here, Lars!)"  
I see out of my peripheral view that the other guys are sitting on the couch watching TV when I get downstairs. Lars did not plan on where he was going, and he thought sitting with the guys would seem too wimpy, so he

just stopped walking when he reached the wall next to the TV set. He turned around and flinched from my intense screaming in his face.

"Hvorfor ville du gøre det? Hvad syge tankerne har du? Han hårdt, jeg giver dig. Men har du virkelig at gå 'Hostel' på hans røv? Hvis du gør noget som nogensinde, at igen til nogen, jeg vil fucking ringe politi, Lars. Hvad den forpulede helvede?! (Why would you do that? What sick mind do you possess? He fucked up, I'll give you that. But did you really have to go 'Hostel' on his ass? If you ever do something like that again to anyone, I will fucking call the cops, Lars. What the fucking hell?!) Fucking hell!"  
I quickly and angrily stalked my way back upstairs to make sure Dave was alright. I slammed the bathroom door shut and wrapped Dave in a towel, as he was soaking wet and still in his shorts.  
***

"What the hell was that?" James asked. Cliff was quietly sitting, eyebrows raised.

"I, uh...I poured rubbing alcohol on Dave." Lars said as he walked over to sit next to James, seeking protection. "I've never seen her that pissed before."

"She's always been so laid-back...." Cliff added.

"Why did you do that?" James looked rather irritated with Lars.

"Because she's being all 'mommy' again. And Dave doesn't deserve any care from anyone after what he did."

"He's had enough, man. Why'd you have to be such a dick?" James was mad.

"Well-"

"No, man. Any other time, it would've been kind of funny. But after this morning, it's just not cool."

Lars felt deeply embarrassed that James was not proud of his actions. He thought if he got Dave back and made Gemma take their side, it would make him happy. In a morbid way....  
***

Dave was shaking and flinching while trying to remain at least a little bit cool, but then he gave up. Tears started to come down his face which shocked me profoundly.

"Gem, life sucks!" He cried into my shoulder. "It fucking sucks. Everything I do, it's just..." and he continued to cry.  
I did not know what to do. Dave Mustaine _crying_? Literally _crying_?

"It'll be fine." Yes it would. This never happened. I could not allow time to be altered this way- especially when I forgot that 'Hostel' had not even been thought of yet and Dave would be kicked out much sooner.  
I touched my choker necklace and rewound time to the night before.  
I made sure not to drink as much so I wouldn't pass out, and I kept Dave in check when everyone else did.  
James' Flying V's neck wouldn't be snapped in half this way, and Cliff would be more enthusiastic about joining the mighty Metallica.  
***

February-March, 1983.  
James, Lars, Dave and I move into our new crash pad, courtesy of our wonderful friend, Mark Whittaker. Of course I'd read about the mansion in El Cerrito, California, but it's even more hardcore than Lars depicts in the future. James and Lars had bedrooms, Dave got the couch. I kept my stuff in a small closet at Kirk's house for protection against the vicious partying that went on every night at the

"Metallimansion". When we slept, which was from 6am to 1pm, I bunked with Lars most of the time, but my true criteria were really whoever was not shagging that night.  
It wound up that I had taken most of the pictures people see today with an 80's flash film camera and my thin, professional camera from my time for good quality and that I could render the pictures either black and white or colored. Lars covered in silver spray-paint and other various pictures of the guys both together and individually. I almost put Ross Halfin out of business.

Tonight was one of the wilder nights. Here's a list of those in attendance:  
James, Lars, Cliff, me, Dave, Mark, Kirk with Gary and Tom Hunting, Ron, since he was still good friends with us, and about thirty other random people who view our half-home, half-party joint as the hottest spot in the

region. In this house, you need to wear boots 24/7 because of the broken beer bottles and other things no one should ever step in that cover the floors.

Classic "rocker" party. Fires, alcohol, things broken, moans from upstairs, loud music from the basement, yelling and spilled food in the middle.  
Dave hooked a rope from the ceiling and had girls dancing on it when he wasn't swinging upside-down while drinking a beer saying that, "It's like a keg stand, just doesn't hurt your hands!"  
Lars is one of those spilling food and going upstairs - later saying that, "Girls dig foreigners."  
Mark, Cliff and Ron are more relaxed, moving furniture out of the way so it wouldn't break and having their share of beer.  
Exodus is performing amongst the small group of people downstairs, which is where James and I are.

It was basically an open mic night. A bunch of people from the crowd took turns playing the instruments, some doing cover songs.  
"Why don't you grab your harmonica? You could play some...jailhouse blues or something." James smiled, ignorant of my hatred for the only instrument I know. He was only talkative when he was drinking, even

though he was comfortable around me when he wasn't, but he was still quiet.

"Like I'd bring that whuss into this craphole." I scoffed. "It'd get lost."

"You're right. Those Ibanez's are such bad influences." He chuckled.

Kirk got kicked off guitar because Dave happened to make his way downstairs with a stumbling technique. How ironic.

"Hey, Gemma!" He greeted as we kissed hello. It was an awkward habit we'd picked up from our mutual European friend. James was still uncomfortable with it, so he cat called.

"Oooh!!" He shut up when I punched his shoulder.

We spent the night conversing about alcohol brands, our drug experiences, bands we liked, styles we thought were dumb, like rubber bracelets.

"They should make 'em outta condoms for accessibility purposes." Kirk said. It was funny, but I saw a look of amazement fall over James' and Kirk's faces after it was spoken.

"We should..." they started that the same time, "...yeeaahh!" I rolled my eyes. Boys will be boys, and these were my boys.

We proceeded to get completely "Kill 'Em All- hammered" and pass out in a corner on the middle floor. That was really how life went with Metallica in the early days.  
***

April, 1983.  
I had been there to witness the "Dave's dog versus Ron's car and James" situation. I always felt kind of bad for Dave, but he really did do it to himself.  
When they took him to the bus station, I offered to ride back to California with him and then meet the guys back in Rochester and stay with them. James overheard this, and I don't think he ever forgave me for it. He

grabbed my wrists and pulled me away roughly. He picked me up and slug me over his shoulder and took me inside the bus and threw me into our bus, and as I was recovering, he yelled, "Stay out of this!" and slammed

the door. Then I heard yelling.

"Get on the fucking bus, man!"  
I also heard Cliff trying to calm him down.

"You're out, man. I mean, we just can't deal with you anymore." Lars tried to reason.

"What, no second fucking chance?!" I heard Dave reply, sounding like he had a hangover.

"We gave you three chances, you fucker!! Three!! You abused them all! We almost had something, man!! You fucking ruined it for yourself! Now get the fuck out of here!"

I peeked through the window in time to see James grab Cliff and Lars' jackets and say, "Come on!"

Cliff obviously pulled away, being the extreme individualist he is, he raised his voice back at James, "I'll go when I fucking want to!"  
He turned around and said goodbye to Dave and shook his hand in spite of James and in good will.  
Lars kind of went with James, but he looked back and gave an apologetic glance that also said, "Just go."

Once we were all inside and James was guarding the door, the bus drove off. I was still looking out the window to watch Dave Mustaine fade away in more ways than one. Just standing, hurt and confused, and a little

doped up no doubt. I wiped the tear on my face away before James could see. To a person who did not know him, James would seem like a douche bag dictator, but he was really suffering. I was trying to help with it, but

he wouldn't comply. He had severe anger and abandonment issues, which lead him to not trust very much. And if anyone betrayed that trust, it would break him more, thrusting him into a fit of rage. That was his only

defense - it made him think he was strong.  
He really was the sweetest person in the world next to Kirk.

Mark and I reminded the guys about the amazing guitarist from Exodus, and Lars called him up and told him to come to New York.  
Now I had my Metallica.  
When he showed up at our hotel, the guys were all sleeping, and I was the one to wait for him the lobby and bring him to the room.  
I had my full family together now.  
***

November, 1983.  
I have been staying in Boston for a month or so rather than with the guys, rather than my home state of New York, where I only lived for eighteen years. I wanted to see if when I left them to themselves, if they could get the right work done.

I got a phone call in the middle of the night from a phone booth.

"Hello?" I said groggily.

"Gem?" I heard Lars reply.

"Lars? What are you -?"

"Gem, someone stole our gear." No way. -I- was the reason they went to Boston?

"...All of it?" I tried to be clueless.

"Focking ALL OF IT."

"Oh, geeze....How is everybody?"

"James is...I think he's literally on fire he's so pissed, Cliff's pissed, Kirk's about to cry, and I just feel completely helpless."

"Tell everyone I love them and you guys need to get your asses over here right now."

"We will. Gem, I gotta go-"

"Of course. Just get here when you can. I'm bored without you." I heard him laugh on the other end.

"Man, this night sucks!" I heard Cliff yell in the back ground.  
***

The guys picked me up to ride with them from there.  
Lars wouldn't leave my side and James wouldn't put me down. Best. Time. Ever.

We sat in the bus and played mostly Pink Floyd music and Led Zeppelin. We would've needed amps for Black Sabbath.  
By now James had accepted his role as lead singer for the band, so he took the initiative to sing Aerosmith. Very comical. He also played John Marshall's acoustic that he was borrowing.  
Lars would stomp his foot and clap his hands and tap his knees.  
Cliff also had an acoustic, but played low octaves so it had the necessary deep sound of a bass.  
I couldn't play anything except the harmonica, which James laughed at, but Lars and Cliff were interested in a vast array of music.  
After they were finished being serious with the songs, James sat me on his lap like Santa Clause and tried to teach me scales on the guitar.  
I told him I would never learn, that I was a listener, not a player. But Cliff jumped in and gave this huge speech on passion that I secretly recorded.  
There was no way that I wouldn't have a piece of Cliff after he was gone. I loved him just as much as Lars, Kirk and James had.

We had a bunch of nights like that.  
***

December 24, 1983.

The guys are completely broke. We've been bunking with some pretty cool fans for most of the Kill 'Em All For One tour. The future says that a female admirer takes them to dinner tonight, so I'm on my guard. I just

might be replaced. I was jittery all day wondering when she would arrive. What if they liked her more than me? Would Metallica have a new princess?

It is now 11pm, and this chick ain't showing up. I begin to take matters into my own hands when I find a two-hundred dollar bill in my left jean pocket.

"Hey! Guess what guys?" I said to my starving family.

"What?" Kirk, the optimist, replied. James hadn't talked all day, all Lars did was groan, and Cliff was trying to find a place cheaper than three dollars- which was all they had collectively- on Christmas Eve that wasn't filled

with an addition of a waiting list. I had searched my pockets, but that blessed piece of paper was hiding in a small, unknown section near my zipper.

"You wanna go get dinner?" I asked. James opened his mouth for the first time in fourteen hours to yell,

"What the fuck do you think?! We haven't eaten all fucking day!"

"_All. Fockin'. Day._" Lars repeated to emphasize James' words.

"Hey, hey, hey. Ask nicely." I teased. James took me by my shoulders and pushed me up against the brick wall that framed one side of the sidewalk we were walking down. Now that I think of it, James was pretty violent

towards me. I can not remember the last time I did not have bruises on my shoulders. I suppose since I was always tough enough to be considered one of the guys, he was never concerned. I wrestled with everyone.  
"Geeze! Cranky, much?"

"Sellwake, we are starving." He pleaded with his bright blue eyes.

"Pick out a place. Any place." That let out the hunger beasts the guys had been restraining.

"Lancaster Dispensing Company!!"

"Closest place!"

"LDC_is_ the closest place!"

"No it's not!"

"Look on a focking map!"

"You look on a fucking map, man."

"Screw that, guys! Let's just find it- I don't care how far it is." I silenced them.

We walked quickly in the general direction of the restaurant and it only took twenty minutes. And it was the best meal I ever had in my life.  
***

1985.

The guys and I just got of the Ride The Lightning Tour and are back in the studio.  
During Kill/Ride, the music process and the albums came out exactly as expected and I have to make sure that Master Of Puppets turns out the same, perfect way.  
We sleep in the studio in Copenhagen, no beds or showers unless we rented a hostel. It wasn't comfortable or clean, but the Kill 'Em All For One cross-country tour in the Winnebago was thousands of times worse.  
Once you've woken up in a puddle of vomit in a hot as hell, bumpy RV you are sharing with at least 8 men and whoever they decide to bring along, with your shaggy hair tangled and you're in the middle of the floor between the two rows of bunkbeds you see your friends sharing with naked girls, with a hangover because you've been passing out drunk every night to get at least thirty minutes of sleep; anything seems clean, pure and comfortable.

I'm still debating with myself whether or not to experiment with time and keep Cliff alive. If I mess up, I can just rewind and keep it the way its supposed to go.

"Okay. Barking of machinegun fire, there's nothing to me now. Sounding of the clock that ticks....dah, dah-dah, dah, dah...." James recited off his notepad to Cliff and I. We were the only ones allowed to contribute to the

lyrics.

"The head that never bows...?" Cliff said.

"Well I want it to go with it like the previous line." He disagreed. I thought it was really good, but it just wasn't what it was supposed to be. No one changes my favorite line of a Metallica song.

I waited with a smirk on my face. 'I know something you don't know....'  
"I don't really know where you're going with that. I'm just not into lyrics today." He got up and took his bass on his way into the studio to jam out a couple riffs.

"Get used to it, man. Where gonna be doing this for who knows how long." James instructed.

"Uhm...Get used to it somehow." Haha!

"What, Gem?"

"Barking of machinegun fire, there's nothing to me now. Sounding of the clock that ticks, get used to it somehow."  
_'More a man those stripes you wear, glory seeker trends. Bodies fill the fields I see, the slaughter never ends....'_

"That's great!" He said as he jotted it down...'I know it is, Papa Het. I know it is.'

This continued through the whole album.  
I proceeded to slying mold them into what they were to become.  
***

September 27, 1986. Ljungby, Sweden.

I'm scared as hell and I have not left Cliff alone for the last month.

"Dude, I totally get top." Kirk complained.

"That's what she said!" Lars yelled from the bathroom. He and James already fought for their beds, James on the losing side, getting bottom bunk.  
James broke out laughing, but that was the opposite of what I wanted to do.

"What makes you think you get top?" Cliff said rolling his eyes.

"Don't make him burn you with a joint." I tried to joke. They thought it was amusing, but all I wanted to say was how much I loved him. That's the problem with living with a bunch of guys - rockers no less. You can't do things like that.

Teasing is like flowers and pranks are like chocolate.

Lars came out of the bathroom and threw Kirk one of my decks of 52 cards. He shuffled them after removing the Jokers and put them down on the plastic TV-tray as he had for his and James' showdown.

"Now, boys. You can draw from any part of the deck, and you can only draw one card. Whoever gets the higher card gets top bunk." Lars explained.

James was already in his bed, and I wasn't sleeping. Not tonight. I was seated on the couch next to Cliff and across from Kirk. Waiting...watching.

Cliff drew first and pulled the Ace of Spades.  
Shit.

"Yeah!!" He exclaimed and jumped up on his prize.

"You didn't even have a chance!" Lars said this to Kirk, but I heard it directed to Cliff.

As all the guys fell asleep, I got more and more wired. I got to the point where I was not even blinking.  
I just watched the busdriver from my spot on the floor with a pillow and blanket all night. I saw Kirk sleeping peacefully, and I waited for the split-second change from quiet to hectic.  
James had asked if I was going to bunk with anyone, but I said that I was sick and that I did not want him sniffling on stage. He thanked me and rolled over as he said goodnight.

The accident happened the same way, but I found out why. The busdriver dozed off, and I had to leave him be. I had to let Cliff die.  
I killed Cliff Burton.

I helped the guys climb out of the bus through a window.  
James hopped down and I lost sight of him. I just heard a croaking voice begging.  
Lars and Kirk comforting me because I was hysterically crying. They thought I was in aftershock, but I was crying because my friend was dead. But when we all got off, we saw James grasping Cliff's knees.  
Lars and Kirk started clutching their long hair, Kirk dropping to his knees, Lars trying to decide whether or not to stay with James where he felt safe, or sweat it off.  
John Marshall stayed with me about two feet away from the sorrow, rocking me as I lost my mind. I could feel the spirituality of the situation.  
The bus driver went to get me a blanket which I objected to before he even finished his sentence.  
He went over through the guys and tried yanking the blanket out from under Cliff. I bloodcurtlingly screamed at the top of my lungs the same thing that James ordered in a violent yell, "Don't fucking do that!"  
Kirk tried desperately to hold back vomit. Lars let out a pitiful cry and turned around and started running as fast as he could. By the time I yelled for him to not leave us, he was a quarter mile away.

We knelt around Cliff's legs until the police and firemen arrived, subsequently bringing the press shortly after them.  
I started thinking about Cliff's poem..."Cannot the Kingdom of Salvation take me home?"  
He would have hated the world come 1990. I pictured his soul leaving his body and meeting God. I imagined what God would say...would He show him the world to come? Would He give him the choice to return to us?

If He did, I am sure he would pick the Kingdom of Salvation over a few more years in Metallica. He had already served the purpose for which he was sent, or at least I trusted.  
I trusted that Cliff was finally where he wished to be.

The police asked the driver what happened with the guys present.  
He said there was probably black ice on the road and when he was asked if he might've dozed off he denied it and said he was well rested. Upon hearing this, James immediately began backtracking to find the alleged

black ice.  
When he came back he reported there was none. No one was ever held responsible, and that is probably why he keeps dreaming that Cliff has come back. No closure.

We had to drive for miles to pick Lars up - he was running and crying at the same time. Everyone knows its an Ulrich thing to work out when you're stressed.

None of us took any painkillers or complained or even asked for anything at the hospital. A cab took us to a hotel where we all shared the same room.  
I took my recording device with earphones that did not exist yet and listened to Cliff's speech on musical passion and how if you really want something, you will find a way to earn it.  
I do not think any of us slept. James immediately started drinking, I joined him after I listened to my recording a few times. Kirk simply lied in bed, staring at the ceiling from the opposite end of the bed next to Lars,

who had his face down in a pillow and was not moving, but I could see he shallow breathing, hearing the occasional choked back sobs.

Life was hell after that day.

***

October 7, 1986.

His funeral is today. We're back in San Francisco.  
The guys were with the family, comforting them. I felt like a tag-along. I wasn't sure why, Cliff and I were great friends....  
I think that's about were it started....  
***

November, 1986.

Metallica hires Jason Newsted.  
He will be heavily hazed. The guys don't want him or the fans thinking that he's a replacement. He's just "the new kid" and I am glad that he understands.  
I was the only one who was nice to him, because Jason is my brother in this family of mine. It was amusing watching James' mean jokes on Jason from backstage, I must admit. They got me chuckling. Jason did not

laugh much at them. He would smile out of embarrassment.

"Look at 'im smilin'. He knows its true." James said once after joking to the entire stadium that the guys were going to play one more song and then get a shower and "hopefully Jason will have a girl scrubbing him down

this time". Obviously a lie, but either way, it hurt Jason's reputation because there are some people who believe it.

James, Lars and Kirk are getting laid every night after drinking and smoking themselves out of their minds.  
Jason and I would hang in the bus and play Nintendo and drink and talk.  
One time, we had fallen asleep on eachother because we passed out drunk, and even though everything is "bed" when you are intoxicated, human beings are exceptionally comfortable. James was the first one back the

next morning. He got territorial towards Jason after that.  
Like a protective father threatening his daughter's boyfriend.  
He encouraged the guys to haze him harder.  
***

1988. ...And Justice For All era.

James and Lars have resorted to feeding their egos.  
They absolutely would not allow Jason to have any say in the making of the album. Kirk had a say, but he got turned down ninety-nine to one.  
Lars wouldn't say anything unless he really wanted it on the record, he was afraid that anything he slightly liked James would not like simply because Lars liked it.  
James resented me giving my opinion, but he grew to learn that all my ideas were perfect. That was really the only reason why I was around all the time. I had expected to need to give them room to be just the four

guys, but they insisted.

I helped with Harvester Of Sorrow the most.  
One was completely doctored, so I had to pay special attention to that, but for the most part, they were fine on their own. This saddened me.

You see, my father took off when I was five years old, and my two brothers were about eleven years older than me, like James.  
I never really had a secure male figure, which is obvious since my figures wound up being three guys born in the 60s from a band all the way across the country that I had never even met.

It was difficult going through it again. Metallica was the one thing I had that could never leave, but the members surely could. Its easier to love a thing or entity than actual human beings. Expecially men. Because when

your guy friends get girlfriends, the unspoken rule is that you can never see or talk to them again.  
That's what happened when my father remarried.  
That's what happened when my mother died. My brothers took off, both married with several daughters. I could not help being jelous. I was eightteen by then, godparents dead as well.  
So I tore information from the slums of New York City, the information that trickles down from the CEOs. That's how I got my hands on a timemachine. Pulled some Clive Owen persona and worked from the inside- took a trip to Japan with a fake name as a liason between companies. How I managed that? Well, imagine the determination of someone striving to save the last piece of their life. If I did not persue it, I would be comdemning myself.

Now that I wasn't allowed to be around Jason and I could not be around Cliff, I was empty.  
Lars and James treated me like I wasn't there. They were much too focused on music and grieving.

I would travel a state over from wherever the Damaged Justice tour took us. I became an arsonist. I burned down old abandoned warehouses and buildings and run-down homes. I smoked marajuanna and hit the

heavy piece of alcohol and a set it all on flames.  
No one knew. The cops did not have the appropriate technology yet necessary to catch me. I knew what to cover up. Drunk and high, and I was better at arson than anyone.

After a little while, I figured I should buy a copy of the CD. I flipped through the booklet and saw that I was credited when my name was not even supposed to exist.

"Metallica thanks: ...Special thanks to Gemma for your support, friendship, and ability to have ideas when everything sounds like shit. You're the best. Thanks for always picking up after us and being responsible for us

like our tourbuses and studios are daycare centers. You know we need it, love.

Hetfield thanks: ...Gem, you've always been there to make sure I keep my sanity. I owe you my life.

Ulrich thanks: ...Gemma! You're the best big sister ever. Always there to speak Dansk to. Rock on, chickey!

Hammett thanks: ...Glimmer chickey! You always make sure that I shower at least once a week and let me borrow your shirts when mine are covered in all kinds of nasty shit. And an extra special thanks for getting us all

new underwear and socks all the time. Love you!

Newsted thanks: ...Gemmy. I know, I'm surprised I got to thank anyone, too. You've been a great friend to talk to and my own personal safetynet. You've been incredibly welcoming and I really appriciate it. Peace,

darling."

There was nothing I could do about this, so I just had tolet it be.  
***

1990.

Beginning the Black Album recording.  
I assisted heavily with this album. It had to be perfect because it was already so doctored, just like One.  
I had quit arson by this point, since I now had something. James and Lars were still ego-feeding, but I knocked them back into place because I knew all the good ideas before they did. So I could call them shit and tell

them what to play and when to play it with barely any musical knowledge. This pissed Bob off a lot. I liked him in my time, but we really butt heads more often than not.  
I also helped Jason and Kirk deal with the lack of free creative flow.

Once the record was finished, we celebrated. We drank, we smoked, and before we all went out, we all personally celebrated by shaving and washing our clothes and pretty much getting clean-cut.

We went to 20 different bars that night. We were puking by number seven.  
I could never tell what happened other than a fucking great night.

I awoke the next day back at the hotel we were staying at. My head hurt like hell and I had never felt more alive.  
I was extremely comfortable for having a hangover and standing for over twelve hours.  
I looked around and saw James lying next to me. This is not what it seems, I frequently woke up next to one of the guys. This has hapened since...forever, really.  
I looked over across the room to the other bed and saw Lars lying across the pillows by the head board in boxers and one of my sport bras and Kirk upside-down, half way off the bed.  
Jason was sleeping in a chair with plastic wrap on his face. I decided to get up and make sure he was still alive, which he was. He did not even stir when I took it off, he was heavily passed out.  
Pretty ridiculous and a little awkward.  
Around 2pm, we all got up and had "breakfast" delivered. We tried writing some silly songs about hotel breakfast. Everything went as smoothly as ever. I was a part of everyones' lives.  
***

1992.

I had to let James experience his pyrotechnics accident. Otherwise he wouldn't have the tattoo of the burning "1963" cards or have learned to "Carpe Diem".  
It broke my heart. I can not even listen to the beginning of 'Fade To Black' anymore.

I would be losing them so soon. I hung on to Jason as much as I could. He would be the only one around until 2001.

The Black Album tour will be closing soon, and the guys will start Load in a few years.  
I am preparing to lose my little Dansk brother. He'll be getting married in 1997, James and Kirk will follow.  
I was friends with Lani, though. We got along well, so she will not be territorial- she tagged along almost as much as me.  
***

1998.

I was in all of the bridal parties.  
I can say one thing, Metallica knows how to throw ceremonies with open bars.  
It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but still bad enough.

"How do I look?" They had asked minutes before their ceremonies, dressed in black suits.

"Very handsome." I replied as a daughter would to her father.

They put their families first, and their friends and music second.  
I didn't feel like a part of them anymore.

Tonight, we are at an after party. We got cleaned up at different hotels after one of the ReLoad concerts. Not different rooms, different _hotels_.

The venue is particularly four-star. Very fancy, as fancy as metal gets. Biker fancy.  
I was feeling so out of myself.... Lars is off socializing, which I normally did along with him, but Skylar is with him now.  
Lani did not tag along with Kirk - she's back in California. So I chilled with him and Jason. We sat on a long, red, "L" couch and drank and talked with eachother, a few lucky fans and some other musicians from the

supporting bands.

I looked over at James and saw that he was talking to Francesca.  
There was no way that I would ever feel anger towards her - she helped him in so many ways.  
Kirk saw this.

"You know...I've never seen you with a guy." He said quietly to me.

"That's because I've_always_ been with guys." I tried to joke.

"Not like that, Gem. I mean, you've seen us with girls, but you've never even_liked_ a guy."

"Well, I'm not gay if that's what you're asking."

"I guess that's good...but like_...why?"_

"Why haven't I been with anyone?"

"Yeah."

"Well...I don't know. Its just...I never really wanted anyone like that. I've always wanted brothers and fathers, and I guess that's what I always got."

"Yeah, but you have to know by now that brothers and fathers can't really stay." He said sadly. I think he's realized that all of them have left subconciously.

"I have. But its not my fault if I haven't found anybody. I've kind of accepted that I won't, so I'm not really looking...."

"You shouldn't give up hope."

"That's the thing. I don't really know what I'm hoping for - or even if I'm hoping at all, really."  
He gave me a disgustingly sympathetic look. I hated those looks.  
Just then the lucky fans, who happened to be girls, asked Kirk a list of questions and he had to change his focus. I turned around to see that Jason had imersed himself in a musical discussion that obviously said, "fuck off."

I got up and went to the bathroom. I stood in the well-decorated room, leaning against the wall.  
I whispered the lyrics to various different songs including Escape and "do-dah-bah'd" Orion and Call Of The Ktulu.  
I missed Cliff. I missed the early days. I missed Dave....  
I missed Dave.

If there was anyone in the world who could help me with my self-imposed Metallicabandonment, it was David fucking Mustaine.  
***

'I should've called first,' I thought as I walked up to the door.  
Dave opened the door and just stared for about a minute. I took in the image of my old friend and was silent.

"You're not..."

"Gemma." I smiled while trying to hold back tears of desperation. He needed to help me. "I need to talk to you about something. May I come in?"

"About what?" I noticed that he shunned invitation. I couldn't hold the taunting emotions back anymore.

"Ron, You, Cliff, Lars, Kirk, now James and Jason. I don't have anybody!" I cried with my head down, black shaggy hair framing the sadness. He looked at me and seemed to see himself.

"Come on in, chickey." Oh, thank you, God. I took advantage of my welcome and gave him a hug.

"There's no room for me anymore...I knew it would happen eventually, but its so fucked up, man." Just then I heard footsteps coming down stairs.

"Did you get the door?" She entered the room and Isaw the territorial vibe run through her.  
I let out sounds of disgust and disappointment that were kind of like mumbled curse words.  
I seperated myself from Dave and took his left hand and viewed his wedding ring.

"What the fuck, Mustaine!?" So abused.

"What's your problem?" He shouted back. I had completely forgot to check before I went to see him - I knew he was married in the future, I just didn't know when.

"My problem is that no one can help me! You were the last chance I had, man! Everyone is gone. Thanks anyway." I ran out of his home and around the corner so he wouldn't see me in my pathetic state.

It was now early morning, still dark,what the exact time was, I don't know. I felt the time device the posed as a necklace.  
There was nothing left for me here. I wondered what it would be like if Cliff were here....  
I rewound time to 1981. I still had all the experience, but it was now the time when Metallica was first formed.  
I had everyone here.  
I went back to when I was taking the picture of Lars gesturing proudly to James' guitar.  
When I felt alone the first time. So stupid.

I was pretty mad at Dave this time around. I remembered loving him like he was the uncle in my derranged family, but I felt betrayed by him. Every time I saw him, I saw an evil ginger that wouldn't be there for me

when I needed him. I shunned him. And the next time he was abandoned at the Greyhound station, I did not shed any tears for him. I did not offer to ride back with him. James did not throw me into the bus, for I stood

beside him when he said all those terrible things to Dave. I kept silent, but in my mind I was screaming my own insults.

It was so perfect to be with all the guys again. I was happy to see Cliff.  
***

September 27, 1986. Ljungby, Sweden.  
I was not as scared this time. I knew exactly what was going to happen, but this time, I wasn't going to stand back and let the driver doze off. Cliff would stay with us- Jason can stay with Flotsam and Jetsam, he will create

Echobrain either way.

When all the guys fell asleep, I went and talked with the driver.  
I asked how long he's been in this line of profession, where he was from, what he wants from the future. What he thought of Copenhagen as we exited Sweden. I talked with him until the sun rose.

September 28, 1986.  
Then when all the guys woke up, I said good morning to them. I said good morning to Cliff. We stopped at a diner for breakfast and the busdriver took a good nap and switched with another driver.  
I saved Cliff Burton.

Life was heaven after that day.  
***

1988, Justice two.

I was helping James with some lyrics as Cliff arrived. Trying to make him form Dyer's Eve.  
We all greeted him and he sat with Jamie and I. James actually didn't have his Justice era facial hair - probably because he was not depressed or did not have a need to seem manly and strong.

We were going through a bunch of lyrics and every line that I wrote, Cliff hated. Not "didn't like". Hated.  
James was siding with him, because he's _Cliff_. I wouldn't expect anything less, but this is not ...And Justice For All.  
They kept the law and government aspect of it, but renamed the album and the song to Hounds of Justice.  
After K9 drug-sniffing dogs.  
Yeah.  
Different lyrics as well.  
Total bullshit.  
***

1989.  
It is still called the Damaged Justice Tour, surprisingly. James and Cliff think alike a little bit at least.

Doris does not exist, but bass does...it does not sound right.  
Fans still enjoy the music, but it is supposed to be a certain way. One note changed could kill someone who was saved by the right version.  
I am not sitting back and watching them do this to the Black Album, too.  
***

1991.  
There's a lot of tension between Cliff and I.  
We're recording the Black Album right now, and Cliff will obviously never let the Black Album happen.  
I really wish that I didn't think like that, and I wouldn't if the music was the way it was supposed to be. But its not, and The Unforgiven saved my life. The first song I heard by Metallica.  
And now it doesn't exist because Cliff does.

"Cliff, the verse is perfect." I argued.

"You don't know anything about what's musically perfect, Gemma." He fought back. Cliff doesn't take anyone's crap, and neither do I. "Nothing even rhymes."

"Words don't have to rhyme, its how you sing them. And in this case, anything that comes out of James' mouth is golden to millions of people.

"Gem. Its music. It has to flow."

"It _does_ flow! The vocals carry the music and-"

"Gem! I'm sorry, chickey, but it sucks. I don't want that shit on the album- our work." I could tell when he said "our work" he did not include me. This should not offend me, but after all the relived years of the guys including me, you could say that I got a little spoiled.  
I got up and angrily walked out of the room, slamming the door Hetfield style.

"She's as stubborn as James and Lars put together." Kirk mumbled as he fiddled with a solo.

All this over one verse. All he had to do was agree with me. These words saved lives, these words gave Metallica millions of album sales.

_'You just stood there screaming__  
__Fearing no one was listening to you__  
__They say the empty can rattles the most__  
__The sound of your voice must soothe you__  
__Hearing only what you want to hear__  
__And knowing only what you've heard__  
__You you're smothered in tragedy__  
__You're out to save the world'_

I mean, come on! Written by James himself, and all of a sudden just because I help with it its the worst thing ever put down on paper.

I'm extremely troubled that I've decided that I have to go back again...and leave Cliff. Again.  
But as much as I love him, I love the entity of Metallica more than this human being - which is really what I should've focused on before.  
I don't need the guys every winking moment. I need their music.  
***

Late 1983. Boston. Third time around.  
I'm sitting on James' lap as he's trying to teach me guitar.  
I try to learn.  
Cliff does not give his speech and Kirk is passing drinks.

I live through time effortlessly until I have to leave Cliff again.  
I know how to play guitar now, though. That makes it easier to cope.  
***

Ljungby, Sweden. 1986.

I didn't break down this time. I simply shut down and blankly let the tears fall, like James.

I relived time as I did the first time through.  
I enjoyed myself a little less than it, though.  
I'd gone through so many times that it ceased to feel the least bit authentic.  
***

I've decided to go back to my own time, 2014.  
This time has even less for me than the 1980's. I hated every second of the month I spent there. I knew that to be truely strong, I had to be brave and face it, but who_wants_ to be sad?

I have been having dreams every night about Kirk, Ron, Dave, James, Lars, Jason and Cliff.  
I dreamt of interviews I'd seen and of the times that I was interviewed with them as "the fifth member".

I awoke one day with a single thought : As much as I loved Kirk...I wondered what it would be like if  
Dave never got kicked out of Metallica. Then I wondered...what if Dave -and- Cliff stayed?

I just missed them so much...no way would I live in this apocalypse ever again when I could be the fifth member of my true family.  
***

1982.

"Hey, Dave?"

"Yeah, chickey?" Good, he's sober.

"You should really think about going to AA." The extra chance he always wanted.

"What the hell is 'AA'? I'm already in AlcoholicA." He joked.

"Alcoholics Annonymous, dickhead. Its a place people go to get help with their drinking."  
He was silent for a moment.

"So they're gonna help me learn to drink in extreme ways? Like kegstands? Because I already-"

"No," I laughed. "They'll help you stop drinking as much as you do." So dumb.

"Why the fuck would I do that? I like drinking." He was put-off.

"I know, but the guys and I don't you drinking so heavily."

"You guys don't have room to talk! You-"

"You drink so much more, Dave, and you know it! You're a fucking druggy, too." He started to yell back at me, but I am one hell of a retaliater.  
"They've been talking about kicking you out if you don't shape up!" His face went completely shocked...betrayed.

"Where is it?" He said after a moment.

"I'll take you there."  
***

I waited for him outside the building.  
When he came out, I asked him how it went.

"Inspiring." He said with a hint of a smile.

"Are you shitting me?" I asked incredulously.

"Nope. Everyone was really amazing. I mean, I'm not gonna_stop_ drinking, but I don't wanna get fucked up anymore." I gave him the longest hug of either of our lives.  
I gave David Mustaine the tools he needed to fix his life.  
***

Dave never got kicked out.  
Kirk stayed with Exodus, which became rather big, as well.  
I'm wondering if I save Cliff again if the Justice era will still be screwed up or if Dave being there will cancel it out. I would rather see how things go with Dave alone before I do anything too drastic.

Things were going pretty well...I am pushing the music into Dave's head, making sure it is the same.

I was shocked when we reached 1986 in Sweden.  
The bus accident never happened.  
Cliff and Dave's destinys are intertwined.  
Keep Dave, keep Cliff.  
I was overjoyed that Lars and James don't know this. They would've never even wanted to hear Kirk's name.  
***

Late 1987, Justice three.

Everything is going alright. Puppets turned out the same, just sounding like a guitar cover because the notes were the same, just performed differently.

We are in the studio right now.

Lars is in the recording section performing drum tracks, Cliff is in a serperate section performing bass lines with James helping him by playing his rhythm guitar duties.  
Dave and I are playing the lead guitar parts in the non-recording section.  
I'm basically teaching him The Shortest Straw at the moment.  
When he wants to take a break, we jam out Hit The Lights or The Four Horsemen and lovingly mock James' voice.  
Today my goal was to just continue molding the ...And Justice For All tracks into his head, but we wound up not working very hard. We were just having fun while the other guys worked, which wasn't really a good idea, but this was only week 3 of writing.

"Make your contribution and you'll get the better seat!" He squeezed out.

"Bow to Leper Messiuuh!" What we were doing was basically a Jim Breuer act.  
During a segway-when we thought of the song we should spoof next-I felt a gaze resting on me.

I looked up to see Dave just kinda...lookin' at me. A little awkward.  
"What are you looking at, shitface?" I think by now, I've lost most of my feminism. We wore eachothers clothes, even. Their pants were tight enough to fit like my jeans already did, same with the shirts. I would not go anywhere _near _their shoes, however.

"Nothin'...you're just...you're just pretty great." He smiled as he focused on taking off his guitar while still looking at me.  
My mind was just drawing a blank. The only thing I was thinking was 'fuck that'.

"Thanks. I am pretty great, now that I think of it...." I joked.

"I mean, really great." He said as he got closer and took the back of my head in his hand. Without my consent or awareness, he placed his alcohol-flavored lips to mine and I heard his deepened breathing. I am sitting, shocked and leaning back in the chair with my guitar off to the side. My mouth gaped with shock, but he misunderstood and took advantage.

I was thinking about how often he decides not to brush his teeth, still paralyzed beyond comprehension, when James walked in. Even he had a shocked look on his face, but when he saw my almost disgusted expression of 'Daddy, why is my face is being violated by uncle Dave?' he yelled "What the fuck are you doing?"

Dave seperated himself from me and looked over at James with a smug look. "What are_you_ doing, Hetfield?"

"I'm in here to work on the guitar lines with you. But apparently you're more interested in post-show performances." Such a creative mind he had.

'...........' Why couldn't I think anything? Then I realized I was thinking about why I wasn't thinking anything and came back to reality to see both of the guys staring at me.  
"Uhm." I had no idea what just happened. I just got up and left. 'Maybe Lars and Cliff are making sense today....'

As I walked down the hall of the studio, I thought to myself.  
Okay. So if Dave stays, he falls for me. If I leave Dave, Cliff dies. If I save Cliff, Metallica dies, and so do the thousands of people they saved. And everyone knows that Ron and Jason made the right choices for themselves.

Can I not just have my family? Fathers, uncles and brothers included? How does this happen in a screwed up world where nothing is real or tangible?  
All I want is to belong somewhere, to feel comfortable, to be with my boys. Since my life never granted me that, why the hell would I go back? I could be immortal here. I could still die from murder, but I'd never age.  
Maybe this is the stability I was looking for...something set in stone, unalterable. I had to live four decades, two centuries and milleniums to realize that I wanted time to simpy go the way it was supposed to?

I really _am_ as stubborn as Lars and James put together.

And I'm only eightteen years old. I can always come back.  
***

I sat watching the San Francisco sunset at a train station, enjoying the year 2014.  
I felt the texture of the strings as I slid my fingers down the wooden fretboard. I listened to the sweet melody that James enabled me to learn to play, along with Cliff's inspiring speech.

Metallica gave me freedom through music. My family pushed me away from them with it.  
Metallica included me, they made art with me. My father took off to be a solo keyboardist and vocalist- never made anything of himself. My brothers would turn up the volume on their stereo when I knocked on their doors. My mother forced the harmonica on me- made me take lessons, therefore making me hate it. I took her for granted. I played in local blues clubs with random bands. That was how I made money a little bit before she died. Then I did the same in Massachuesettes.

But today is rather good- happier than most. This was my first time back in California since I returned to my own time. I spent my real life in Massachusettes, but I wanted to relive my nostalgia. I walked the streets and saw translucent replays of all our fun times. The Metallipad, stumbling drunken nights, Tommy's Joint....

"Wicked shredding!" I heard muffled through sounds of people traveling and I saw a one-hundred dollar bill descend into my open guitar case. I looked up to see a small man with the same sunglasses I was wearing, face glimmering because of his nose ring.

"Thanks a lot, man. That's a pretty huge compliment coming from you." Ridiculous.

"Okay, so you know me. What'syour name?"

"Gemma Sellwake." How many times can you introduce yourself to someone through all different ages?

"Huh."

"What?"

"I feel like I know you from somewhere."

"I think I'd remember if we met before." I teased.

"That guitar ain't matching your skills, by the way. I'm heading over to HQ, which I presume you've heard about already. Why don't you come with me and check out some stuff I've been trying to get off my hands? Spring cleaning." He smiled generously.

"Really?"

"Nope. What do you think? Yeah, really." He mocked.

"That's just way too awesome. Are you sure?"

"Now if I wasn't, would I have offered? Besides, you really need something better. I'm surprised it sounds as good as it did. How did you tune that?"

"I suppose not. I tuned it by ear. I just got lucky, I guess." I smiled and got my things together.  
***

When we arrived at HQ, I glanced around nostalgically at the building that housed the movie Some Kind Of Monster. That was my only map to knowing where anything was.

"Welcome to the home of Metallica." Kirk winked and lead me to the Control/Idea Room where I was introduced, yet again, to people I already knew.  
"Hey everybody. This chick here is Gemma Sellwake. I found her rocking out some Zeppelin at the train station, thought I'd give her a new guitar. James, check out her acoustic."

"Nice to meet you." Bob greeted. They rehired Rockhead after Rick Rubin got too busy with other clients to even return Metallica's calls. Kind of disappointing, because I still feel like we should hate eachother, but he does not even know the insults he had thrown my way millions of times. It almost turned into a physical fight, but he was too high up on his producing horse and Kirk and Lars convinced me to go home for the day.

"You, too." I smiled at Bob. "I'm doin' pretty damn well, Lars." I laughed.  
Rob had simply waved and smiled, and I returned the wave while mumbling, "Hey. What's goin' on?"

"This is totally wrecked. How were you able to play Zepp? This is completely out of tune...." James critiqued while fiddling with the strings.

"You have fun with that." Kirk laughed. "Come on, Gem." He lead me through the other door towards the storage room.  
Once we were in the hallway he looked over his shoulder while still walking and said, " 'Gem'. Wow. Sorry about that," he chuckled, "you just seem_so_ fimiliar."

"Maybe in another life...." I hinted.

"Probably." He agreed. He opened the air-tight doors and gestured, "Ladies first."

"Wow....I never thought I'd ever be here." And I never was there. I left before James got married, because that would have been too much for me to handle.

"That's what I said after it was built." He walked over to a rack that held about twenty guitars that was labelled, "KIRK'S UNWANTED STASH", which was crossed out and written underneath was "THE ORPHANAGE".  
"Pick one." He grinned widely.

I took a deep breath and started sifting through the guitars like a poster collection in a store. I came upon a blue, silver and black 1960 Gibson Explorer that reminded me a lot of Ride The Lightning.  
I gave Kirk a look that said, "I really fancy this one, are you sure I can have it? Pwease?"

He pretty much giggled and said, "Let me get you the case and equiptment."

"Could I feel it out first?" I felt so comfortable that I was uncomfortable.

"Of course, chickey."  
...No way.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? You strike me as a chick with a nickname. So I took a guess." He shrugged.

"It _is_my nickname. Self-imposed."

"Oh, cool. We got a good energy." He nodded. I agreed. He walked me into the recording section. I had not been in one since ReLoad. "You know how to play electric, right?"

"Hell yeah. I was just never that good with toggling amps and stuff." He smiled and said,

"Play whatever you want. Sing, fiddle, whatever. And if its cool like the Led Z you were playing earlier, don't be surprised if Lars runs in here and starts jamming. We've been dying for some fun." He said as he jokingly looked over at the Control/Idea room.

I could not help but notice his rapidly graying and disintegrating hair when he said that they have been "dying for some fun". I nodded and smiled and he exited the room. I looked around at all the equipment before I started fiddling 'Don't Start(Too Late)' by Sabbath to warm up into 'Wish You Were Here' by Pink Floyd. After about one minute, everyone showed up in the room with surprised faces.

"What?" I smiled, embarrassed.

"Did you steal Roger Waters' voicebox? Do you have some type of hookup at the morgue?" Lars blurted out, a mild glare from James followed when he noticed that I had flinched. Roger only passed away last year, God rest his soul.

"No...it's mine." I never really considered myself that good at singing. Just that friend you don't mind listening to the radio with in the car.

"Sorry we interrupted you." Bob said when he walked in, seemingly looking for someone. "Please continue." He called the guys to follow him back to the Control/Idea Room to talk business.  
I called Lars back, though.

"Hey, Lars, you busy?" I put on a puppyface that he used on me in another life.

"Not at all. I'm focking bored as shit. What's up?"

"You wanna play some Zepp with me? I can't really play 'Bron-Y-Aur Stomp' alone."

"You know, I've had that buzzin' in my head for like, nine hours." He said as he briskly walked over to his drumset and positioned his feet on the pedals, leaving his hands free to clap and his mouth infront of a microphone for backing vocals. The kid turned out to be a professional when he grew up. Funnest time in a while. I found that by the time I got to the tapping solo, all the guys had collected back in the room with wide smiles on their faces.

"Guys, what the _fuck_?"

"How many voices you got there, chickey?" James said incredulously. How did he know, too?

"One. Mine."

"Nah, I heard it, too. You went from Waters to Plant just like that." He said snapping his fingers and walking over to the crowd.

"Maybe you've just got British blood." Bob suggested. "Maybe you should try James' voice." The room was silent with smiles.

"Only if its cool with him."

"Yeah. Go ahead." He laughed.  
I chose "No Leaf Clover" and "Through The Never". They were completely in shock and awe for some reason.

"How do you_do_ that?" Kirk asked.

"Do _what_, man?" I was getting kind of pissed off. I sounded totally normal.

"How do you sound like so many vocal styles? I mean, really!" He tossed his hands up in the air.

"Yeah, chickey. You're pretty fockin' good." Lars patted my shoulder. Everytime they even breathe a certain way, I have flashbacks and de ja vu.

"Tak, mand.(Thanks, man.)" I said as I patted his arm. "But I still have no idea what you're talking about." Apparently, no one was surprised that I spoke Danish. I guess, like "chickey", it felt normal. Like when we were in Copenhagen drowning in "Christmas beer".

"Gemma, you've got some real, A-quality talent." Bob complimented.

"Talent for what, though? Why are you guys so impressed?" I chuckled. I was used to knowing every detail. I was so completely helpless here.

"You really don't know?" Rob asked. My blank expression was working as an allaby. The guys all looked at eachother simultaniously.

"You have some serious vocal range. I mean, you have soft, moderate, and loud as hell with totally different styles. Not to mention a ridiculously low range for a girl." James guessed that I would not be offended, probably because I already came off as a friend first, not just a female, as I always had.

I remember all the obscenity in the LA studio and the Vancouver studio. It bothered me a little, but I lived with it. Its in the contract you sign when you move in with men.

"We can record you, if you need proof...." Bob trailed off.

"Yeah. She does." Lars got up and gently pulled me into the recording room. He sat me down in what I was able to tell was James'...cubby of sorts by the "1963" license plate. Then he proceeded to sit himself on a table to my right.

"Everything is hooked up, just wait for Hitler- I mean, Bob's que." He winked.

"I heard that, Lars." Bob sounded over the intercom. "Whenever you're ready, Gem. Just give me a count off."

"Sure." I quickly thought of a song- 'Call Of The Ktulu'. I remembered through nostalgia what I used to do once in a while to Bob during the Black Album recording, all times around. Play an instrumental song when he wanted someone to come up with a vocal idea, and vice versa. It pissed him off so much.

_"Don't waste the fuckin' tape!"_ He would scold.

It would seem that I was a member of the band, but I never did_too_ much. It was always mainly Lars, James, Kirk and whichever bassist they had at the time, just with some input from me. I was a reliable creative source and critiquer. I was basically an assisstant producer, since I technically had the experience.

"That's instrumental." Lars laughed, condescendingly, having no idea that I knew more of what I was doing than he ever would- I wrote this song with Cliff and James, Kirk doing the solos.  
I simply nodded and kept playing.

"I was under the impression we were recording a vocal track." The voice of Bob said 'Let there be vocals!'. He was a little irritated by the nonprofessionalism. The guys were laughing in the background, though. They knew what I was up to somehow. I am beginning to think that maybe all the timetravel did affect us all in some way. Not necessarily good.

"I was just messin'. Sorry." It was like he was being paid to put up with me, but he really wanted to tell me off. That made it all the better.

_"Hey, peace, brother. Can I try on this dress?"_ I flashed back to when I was standing outside in Vancouver with James during the filming of A Year And A Half In The Life Of Metallica.

"Do another Floyd song. With vocals." He ordered. I chuckled and began playing 'Mother'.

I heard one minute of the track before I took off back in the studio and crunched out some AC/DC, Boston, Aerosmith.... They were seizing with impression over the intercom. I did some Ozzy, I did some Queen, I did some fucking Soundgarden. When I listened to all the tracks, I simply sunk into the couch between Kirk and Lars and stated how I never knew I had that talent.

"We could have some serious fun with you." Lars said, and all agreed. It seems that they dig me.  
***

I am forever their chickey. No matter what time my life is set in, I am destined, as I had always felt, to be the mighty Metallica's daughter.  
There are times when I wish to go back to more energetic times, but I know I can always come home. I had never known that feeling.  
Life and time teach strange lessons, all you have to do is feel your way through them and learn.


End file.
